


Angels Don't Have Wings

by sexywhales



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Depression, Lots of Angst, M/M, Romance, Suicide Attempt, angsty, angsty angst, homeless
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexywhales/pseuds/sexywhales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people say that our souls travel through different lives, that as we take our last breath, we also take our first, and that dreams are our gateways into remembrance. Some say that life is a dream, that when we go to sleep, we’re really waking up. And then others say that waking life and dreams are equally real.<br/>I didn’t know what to think about life. I just knew that I’d stopped dreaming a long time ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels Don't Have Wings

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how many stories there are out there from Levi's POV, but this one is!! I don't know, I usually see Eren's POV but maybe that's just me.

Maybe…

We saw each other…

We knew each other…

In another life…

And maybe…

Someday…

We’ll see each other again.

\--------

I was eighteen years old when I first tried to kill myself.

Now, let me explain.

When I was five my parents got divorced. My father was an alcoholic and my mother was a horrible caretaker. I ended up mostly fending for myself and, as I got older, fending for her as well. She was a good person, my mother, or, at least, she used to be. 

As I grew older, my mother became more and more distant. By the time I was in high school, she would hardly move at all. I took up a job and worked from the time I got home from school until eleven, and we lived off of my salary and the child support. Well, I say that we lived, but neither of us was really living at that point.

I didn’t have many friends, mainly because I was too busy for any sort of relationship. I was always working after school and sleeping in class. I did do okay in most of my classes, though. I was a pretty smart kid, for never having time at home to study, or even do homework for that matter. I didn’t fail any of my core classes.

I’ll admit that I thought about dropping out several times, though. It was only the memory of my mother, from a time when she still got up to make dinner and still smiled at me whenever I came home, that kept me going. She had always urged me to finish high school, to go and make something of myself, be successful, just like she hadn’t done. Her memory kept me going on the days that I wanted to quit. Sometimes I could look at her and, just for a second, see a flicker of the woman she used to be, before it would hide away again. Those moments were enough for me. They had to be enough, because they were all I had.

Throughout high school I developed a dream for myself. An aspiration, if you will. It was late in my sophomore year that a recruiter came to talk to students interested in joining the military. I went to his presentation and watched him intently, admiring the way he spoke with pride and honor, stood straight and unwavering, and spoke with such assurance that any man would obey him. I decided that day that after high school I was going to join the military. I wanted to be a pilot in the air force, or maybe a marine. Today, I can’t remember for sure.

My mother didn’t come to my graduation. I guessed that she had forgotten about it, or she just didn’t have the energy to move that day. No one really bothered to congratulate me, and I had no friends to celebrate with. The woman at the graduation ceremony said my name wrong, too, and I didn’t bother correcting her. I was proud of myself that day, and that was enough, because it was hard for me to find things to be proud of.

I planned to see a recruiter the day after I turned eighteen in the summer. It was my birthday. I was telling my mother about my plans, about how excited I was to be doing something for my country and for myself, and how I was excited about being an adult. She wasn’t listening. She just looked on at me blankly, none of the words seeming to register in her ears. I felt my face fall. I grabbed my mother by the shoulders and tried to make her look at me. Normally she would have at least said one word to me. Just one. She would maybe say my name or “good” or any other single word that may or may not have made sense with whatever I was talking about, but she stayed silent. I grabbed her by the chin and brought her face up, forcing her to look me in the eyes.

What I saw horrified me.

Any look could have been better than the one she gave me. She could have been angry or sad or scared or even completely emotionless and it would have been better. In her eyes was a look of total lack of recognition.

That was when I stormed out of the room, straight to my mother’s closet. I knew she’d kept a pistol there underneath the flooring in case somebody broke in. I threw dusty clothes out of my way and ripped up the board it was hiding under.

I knew my mother was just in the other room. I knew that I would be leaving her without a note, and that she would hear the gun go off, but I didn’t care, because she didn’t care. I felt tears start to stream down my face. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to kill myself. But in that moment, it was the only option I felt I had. No, it was the easiest option. I had been working so hard for all of these years, and the only person I had left in my life didn’t even know who I was.

_I did this for you,_ I remember thinking to myself. _All of this was for you._

I let out a chocked sob as I pressed the gun against the side of my head. My heart was pounding out of my chest, and my throat was squeezed shut. My head throbbed, and my finger quivered on the trigger. Everything hurt. I just wanted it to stop. I wanted out.

My eyes snapped shut.

I pulled the trigger.

I immediately regretted it.

But something, something tiny, a voice that had always sat at the back of my mind, suddenly jumped forward. It screamed at me, _No!_ , and it moved the gun at the very last second. The bullet caught me in the shoulder, causing such an intense pain that I screamed, absolutely delusional, for five solid minutes.

By the time I was able to make sense of the world once again, I found myself lying on the floor, clenching my shoulder as blood pooled up around me. My mother had not come to my side. The apartment was totally empty, the gun still in my hand even as I held onto myself. 

Another fifteen minutes passed when police knocked down the door. I was beginning to fade in and out of consciousness from the blood loss.

Paramedics did all that they could for a poor kid with no mother and no health insurance. My clavicle had fractured from the shot, and I tore several ligaments. I couldn’t afford much physical therapy, so when I was released, I still didn’t have a lot of mobility in my left shoulder. I couldn’t put both hands above my head.

I couldn’t join the military.

The rest of the story wasn’t important.

Present day, three years later, I was resting on the pad on the floor that I called my bed. I lived in an abandoned office building. Lead paint peeled from the walls and the ceilings, and drove me crazy with all of the mess it made. It was hot in the summer and cold in the winter, and it sure as hell wasn’t legal. The window was yellowed and cracked in places, but offered a lovely view of the street below. As lovely as a view could get in the New York ghetto. Nighttime was falling and with it came the soothing purr of speeding cars, gunshots, and gang violence. I was settling for the night.

I found myself chuckling as the sounds of the city droned in the background. “I wish I hadn’t missed.” 

I should probably say it now; this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's kind of short but this is just sort of the prologue, so to speak. We'll get to meeting other characters and all that stuff next chapter.  
> To be honest I have no real plan for this story, so like, we'll see how updates work out.  
> Spoiler alert: I have no idea what I'm doing


End file.
